


To hold and be held

by Sonomi



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Shibari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23579749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonomi/pseuds/Sonomi
Summary: Aziraphale, to this very moment, is not entirely sure he knows what he's doing.°°°I wrote two short stories for The Bond, a Good Omens shibari zine. The first got into the zine, the second got scratched. Here they're together, at last.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 16





	1. Carthage

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god this is the first thing I publish something that's not in my native language and I feel it's a mess.  
> No beta, we die like men. 
> 
> Still I hope some of the feelings came through.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the ficlet that made it into the zine.  
> Thanks to Chamyl it's in good english <3

* * *

Kinbaku - or shibari - is the art of tight binding.

It seems only apt for such an art to be born in Japan; those good people seem to have a knack for finding meaning and beauty even in the tiniest, most common things. Making tea, handwriting, arranging flowers in a vase.   
Pursuits that in old England would have been deemed fit for young ladies waiting for a marriage proposal.  
Even this complex dance of the rope around the body, making neat coils and designs, seems more akin to embroidery than to tying someone up.

The more I learn about it, scribbling tiny figures and diagrams on the margins of my notebook, the more I'm afraid I won't be able to do this properly.

I take the rope in my hands; it's softer than I imagined.   
It's almost warm under my fingers, as I tentatively wrap it around my wrist.  
How am I going to keep it from getting tangled up?  
I try to unfurl it, laying it on the desk from side to side, to side, to side, to side... you don't realize how long ten metres of rope really are until you try to spread it out in front of you.

A rope is a lifeline, a guide.   
The shortest way between two points, the stroke of a brush; almost an abstract idea that can be held in hand, coiled, turned into a spiral, a maze, a knot.  
A rope can contain a world.   
That's how Carthage was born, isn't it? All the land which could be contained in an ox skin - made into a fine string and then strung around an entire hill.  
  
If I could hold your entire being within me, I would.   
Believe me: I'd make a nest of my ribcage, a pillow of my heart. I'd keep you warm, keep you safe.

But you'd get all flustered if I told you these things out loud, wouldn't you?

At first, the realization bewildered me, to be perfectly honest.  
Well, maybe it shouldn't have.  
It's not as if I don't know how you love to be held; the first time I got the chance to actually hug you, it was as if you were melting in my embrace.  
I recognize your thrill when I lift you in my arms, the hungry look in your eyes when I pin you down while we make love.  
I would be lying if I said I do not find it arousing.

Indeed, we were in bed when you asked me.  
No, not as in 'making love'. We were fooling around, because since you found out that I am _ticklish_ I've known no peace.   
Foul fiend.  
  
You had just woke up, with wild hair and an impish grin; you kept laughing as I yelled at you to stop, as I tried to catch your hands in mine - _why does this corporation need to be_ ticklish _, I wonder? -_ until I ended up gripping your wrists, pinning them to the pillows above your head.  
"At this rate, I'll have to tie you up, dear boy," I said, a bit out of breath.  
All of a sudden, your whole body went loose under me; your eyes got hazy and your breath became shallow.   
For a few heartbeats, we just stared at each other.  
Until... "do it, then," you whispered softly.  
I opened my mouth but did not know what to say, the air around us suddenly too warm, too thick, my pulse too loud in my ears.  
You took advantage of my confusion to slip free and start tickling me again, cackling; but I have been thinking about it ever since.

Back then, if someone told me that you, of all people, would have longed to be restrained, I would have laughed.  
You - always changing, moving like wildfire; there was a time when I wondered if it were possible to grab you at all, if perhaps you could have slipped between my fingers like sand, like smoke.  
I've since learned that our desire stems from the things we cannot have, from the things we cannot be.   
So maybe it really shouldn't be surprising: you, never sated, never at rest, looking for something to keep you still. To keep you close.   
After all, the wave longs for a shore to crash into.

I know what it's like to feel unable to act, powerless and constrained.   
Maybe that's why it's taking me so long to give myself the permission to comply with your wish.  
I'm trying to learn more, to assuage my worries.  
I need to be ready for you.

But I think I'm slowly coming to understand; and once again, it's thanks to you.  
"C'me here, angel." you murmured last night as I came to bed.  
It was dark in the room but I did not turn on the light, I just slipped under the thick duvet, and no sooner had I touched my pillow than you had your arms wrapped around me, a leg thrown across my thighs and your head resting on my shoulder.  
"Sssso warm." you sighed, holding me even tighter.   
I hugged you back, smiling against your hair. "You know, my dear, sometimes it's a bit like being married to a boa constrictor."  
"I'd hug you more, if I could." you said burying your face in my neck "With all of me".   
And while I squeezed you a little closer to my chest I think I understood.

A rope is a boundary and it's a link.  
It's a relief, and it's a promise.  
It can hold entire worlds, and it can be my arms when I can't hold you tighter.

"...still, I couldn't love you more than I do now," I whispered as you fell asleep.   
And I held you until morning.

°°°

_Thank you to Chamyl for proofreading <3_


	2. Carthage

* * *

"...so."  
"Yes, dear?"

Crowley is on his knees in the middle of the bed, a little flushed already, failing to conceil a slightly expectant look in his eyes.

Aziraphale, to this very moment, is not entirely sure he knows what he's doing.  
He should, though; he has studied.   
He has _practiced_.  
He's been tying rope around chair legs, around his own ankles, repeating the patterns over and over and over again.

He absolutely couldn't risk to end up in front of Crowley with a burning face and a tangled mess in his hands.

It's part of the act, isn'it it?   
He's supposed to be calm and in control; collected. Steady.   
But what if he isn't, what if he blushes and fumbles and ends up saying something ridiculous - what if he's just his silly old self? 

"...you look like _you're_ the one who's about to get tied up, angel." Crowley whispers, smiling. "Are you nervous?"

And where's the point in lying?   
"...A little." 

"We don't have to do this, you know. If it makes you uncomfortable."

Aziraphale looks at him.

At the frail shoulders and the narrow chest and the long limbs.  
How could they send him Up Here with this body made of matchsticks, which at any given moment may snap, catch fire between your fingers?

  
He looks at his eyes, wide and golden, almost shimmering in the low light, and wonders how many times Crowley must have looked at him like this, without Aziraphale even realizing.

"Nonsense, my dear. I've been waiting for this." he answers. And it's true.

He's been waiting for the spark he sees in those fiery eyes as he draws closer to the bed. 

He's been repeating the moves in his head, so he would not look hesitant while slowly, deliberately removing his jacket, uncuffing his shirt. So now he can secretly revel in the way Crowley _stares_ at him.

As he rolls up his sleeves he catches a glimpse of Crowley flaring his nostrils, and he has to suppress a smile.

When he's ready, he picks up the coil of black rope; Crowley's gaze darts to it immediately, pupils getting a little larger. 

Aziraphale chuckles softly. "Eyes up here, my dear." 

He draws even closer, until his knees brush the mattress, but does not climb into the bed.   
"Come here." he whispers.

Crowley looks hypnotized.   
He silently slithers by the foot of the bed, never breaking eye contact; but his eyes flutter closed when the angel gently cups his cheek, stroking his thumb on his cheekbone.

"I'm going to ask you to turn around." he says quietly; and Crowley does just so.   
He kneels with his back turned to Aziraphale, the smallest shiver traveling through his spine. It's difficult for the angel not to reach out, not to trace each vertebra with his fingers, with his mouth.

Steady.

"Give me your hands, dearest." he whispers; and Crowley's breath is a little shallow as he outstretches his arms, rolling back his shoulders, the shoulder blades shifting under skin and muscle - and he's so beautiful like this, head slightly bowed, calling kisses to the back of his neck.

Not now.  
Aziraphale draws in a deep breath; and then he begins.

Have Crowley's wrists always been so thin? 

As he slowly wraps the rope around them, they look as fragile as glass.  
Aziraphale tries to find the delicate balance between tiyng them firmly and caressing the skin, holding him like a lover would.   
While he patiently weaves the knots he can't help to once again marvel at Crowley's body.

It feels almost like the first time he undressed him; discovering again the stark angles and the clean lines, the way his flesh captures the light, the pale constellations of freckles.

  
Aziraphale knows his breath is tickling Crowley's skin; he can see every shiver, the goosebumps on his arms.  
So he leans forward, almost kissing the shell of his ear.   
"If only you knew how beautiful you are, my dear." he whispers. And then he closes his eyes and inhales deeply, burying his nose in the red locks behind Crowley's ear, taking in everything: the heady scent of Crowley's skin, the way he cranes his neck to give him better access, the tiny gasps escaping his throat.

"Can I touch you?"   
Is he still in character? Is this still part of the act?

Aziraphale isn't sure, but when Crowley frantically nods, eyes closed and cheeks flushed red, he's overwhelmed by something like boundless gratitude, like bliss. It cracks his heart open like an eggshell.

When he slips his arms around Crowley and places one hand over his heart, he can't tell if the thundering beat he feels is from his lover's chest, or from his own.


End file.
